


Defensive Maneuvers

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Content, Voyeurism, guilt and shame, indeterminate age, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years of living with Bro has done more than sharpened Dave's reflexes. Their dodgy lifestyle has slowly shifted his way of thinking, reworked his brain, warped the waves- it, or rather, Bro, is turning him into one messed up kid.</p><p>And brain warpage is a bad, bad thing for a boy to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the warnings for child abuse and incest. This is a story featuring a highly unhealthy relationship.

Ultimately it's Dave's own damn fault.  
  
He got up to take a piss, left his computer on. Locked, sure, but Bro is a master at guessing his passwords. And with the browser history for the last hour and a half not yet cleared, he's able to access all the things Dave has been looking at today. Namely the porn he's been looking at. His search for the best blow job clips the internet has to offer is glaringly obvious and although Bro is long gone by the time Dave gets back to his computer, leaving no trace of ever having been there, it isn't long before he realizes his mistake. Wondering when the strike will come leaves him on edge for the rest of the day.  
  
He's perched on the kitchen counter and halfway through a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, a totally acceptable dinner option, when Bro's steady gaze finally starts to freak him out. Even with the sunglasses on Dave can usually tell when his brother is watching him, and after several minutes of constant staring from across the kitchen, it starts to bother him.  
  
He stuffs another spoonful of cereal into his mouth and, all kinds of nonchalant, asks, "What?"  
  
Because you know, it could be nothing. Sometimes Bro stares at him for no good reason. He figures it's some way of judging him, studying him for progress. Bro likes to admire his handiwork, and even if a lot of people would see that as kind of creepy, Dave is cool with it. He doesn't mind being stared at, just prefers it when he gets a hint as to what his Bro is thinking as he does so.  
  
Bro doesn't answer him, but his expression shifts just slightly. The left corner of his mouth quirks up and he leans forward, resting his forearms on the kitchen counter.  
  
Dave swallows and dips his spoon into the cereal bowl again, drudging up the bits at the bottom that have already gone soggy. He pops them into his mouth and pauses, spoon still caught between his lips. If he didn't know any better he'd say that Bro's stare is directed at his mouth.  
  
He quirks an eyebrow over his shades, pulls the spoon out from between his lips and oh god- oh god he really is staring at his mouth. Is there something on it? Is he bleeding? Does he look stupid? Or- fuck. Fuck, he gets it now. He feels his cheeks heat up slightly at the realization.  
  
He tries to ignore it because it's a weirder thing than usual, looks down at his cereal and picks up his pace, shoveling the food into his mouth with as much grace as is required to maintain coolness, just wanting to get out of the kitchen because dammit, he thinks he knows where this is going and he's really not sure how to feel about that.  
  
Bro leans further across the counter, staring him right in the eyes, daring him to leave. Dave can't move. He just stares back, holds his breath, waits for Bro to make his move.  
  
He doesn't. He lets Dave stew in his own anxiety, keeps right on staring as Dave grabs his cereal bowl and tips it back to suck down the chocolate milk at the bottom. The empty bowl gets dropped onto the counter with a clatter and Dave is ready to bolt. But Bro is faster, always faster, and before Dave can so much as get his feet on the floor, Bro's hand is on his face, thumb and forefinger clasping his jaw tight.  
  
Dave's breath hitches and his cheeks tinge pink as those fingers move, thumb slipping under his chin, tipping his head up so Dave can't possibly look away. Two fingers slide over his lower lip, pressing almost threateningly.  
  
"...Bro?" He tries to keep his cool. He tries to stay absolutely chill and not at all freaked out by the implications of what his bro is doing.  
  
Bro full out smirks, putting every ounce of douchebaggery possible into the expression as he purposefully jerks the crappy countertop, making Dave gasp lightly- those fingers slip right into Dave's open mouth, pressing down flat on his tongue.  
  
Saying what the fuck would absolutely not fly in this situation. Demanding an explanation is totally out of the question. Dave just has to accept his fate, roll with this, submit. He closes his mouth around Bro's fingers, staring up defiantly. He can handle this.  
  
Bro's eyebrows raise ever so slightly- is Dave asking for a fight here? Because Bro isn't afraid to fuck him up.  
  
Dave is terrified. He keeps a straight face, doesn't move an inch.  
  
Bro's fingers twist in his mouth, tracing the edges of his tongue. Dave waits as long as he can before he finally swallows, as carefully as possible. It's awkward, so awkward, but neither of them is going to back down. Bro is teaching him a lesson in protecting his privacy and Dave has to take it, can't break under the pressure of Bro's expectations.  
  
"What're you thinking, Dave?"  
  
Bro speaks softly, smugly, withdraws his fingers just enough to let his brother answer.  
  
"Not much." Bro's fingers tickle slightly against his lower lip and he compulsively runs his tongue over them, immediately wishes he could take it back.  
  
Bro drags the tips of his fingers over Dave's lip, watches the beginnings of a shudder that gets repressed with the blink of an eye.  
  
"Got some curiosities buggin' you, bro?"  
  
Dave's face goes hotter at the question but he doesn't answer, holds his ground. He pretends like he didn't just let his mouth fall open as an invitation for Bro's fingers to sneak back inside. He's kind of ashamed, even though he knows this is all natural bullshit to be running through his head. Teenage boys watch porn. It's pretty much a rule. But his bro's teasing makes him feel like the sickest freak on the planet, makes him want to crawl into a hole and stay there until all this totally uncool sexual interest passes. And then there's the matter of the fact that it's Bro and, well, he doesn't even want to try to wrap his brain around that one. He tries to frown, probably ends up looking like a pouty dumbass.  
  
Bro smiles wider, "You mad?"  
  
Ironically referencing an internet meme... the magnificent bastard. It's a low blow.  
  
Dave licks the very tips of Bro's fingers, doesn't flinch.  
  
But then Bro takes one arm of Dave's shades between two fingers of his free hand, tips them up smoothly enough that they don't even bump against his forehead. Red eyes widen in surprise and while he's stunned, Bro's fingers take advantage. They slip into Dave's mouth again, over his tongue, all the way to the knuckle so Dave nearly gags and the leather of fingerless gloves scratches his skin lightly.  
  
Then out they slide again, far enough forward to bump nails against Dave's front teeth before delving back in. A slow rhythm starts up and it takes a minute for Dave to realize that Bro is honest to god fucking his mouth with his fingers.  
  
There is nothing in the world that could make this right.  
  
Then again, there is nothing in the world that could kill the erection he's sporting right now.  
  
He tenses, bracing himself as Bro's fingers slip in and out of his mouth, tries to work his lips and tongue in an appropriate manner but he doesn't really know what he's doing. More than once his teeth scrape Bro's skin and he averts his eyes, feeling like the biggest fucking loser in the world. Without his shades he can't hide the way his eyelids get heavy when he concentrates hard, can't conceal even a little bit of the flush that rises in his cheeks as he experiments, bobbing his head. He grips the edge of the counter, unsure of what to do with his hands for all of this.  
  
Bro smirks down at him and tips his head further back, making Dave strain to work his mouth properly. He ignores the slightly irritated look Dave shoots him, withdraws his fingers entirely and listens to Dave's heavy breathing for a moment before slipping them back into his mouth, snaking his ring finger in for good measure.  
  
Dave feels embarrassingly exposed, unsure of where to look without his shades to protect him. He sucks, swallows, gags a little, coughs and blushes right down to his neck at the way Bro looks at him. So, so intently, like he's waiting for something.  
  
"Show me what the girls you were watching do, Dave."  
  
And Dave gives him a 'seriously, what the fuck?' look because dammit, he's already trying to deepthroat his fingers here.  
  
Bro shakes his head, taps the middle finger of his free hand against Dave's throat. And somehow, Dave gets it.  
  
He wants to melt into the floor for having to do it, but he gets it.  
  
Dave bathes Bro's fingers with his tongue and moans, moans like a whore. Like a goddamn classically trained porn star doing the best work of her career. He should get awards for this, an Oscar, except he's hardly acting. He whimpers, shifts on the counter, tries not to draw attention to the tented fabric of his jeans. He shoots Bro a desperate, wanton look because he figures he wants him to, and everything seems to be going well.  
  
Until he reaches out a hand to grasp Bro's wrist, taking the initiative and leaning forward in his seat, sucking his brother's fingers like the fucking elixir of life is coating his skin.  
  
Then, then Bro pulls his hand away.  
  
Dave is left in the lurch, mouth hanging slightly open, hot and breathing hard and sweet jesus, did he seriously drool on himself? There's a slick sheen of spit over his lip, down part of his chin and he sits back fast, wiping it away with a swipe of his sleeve.  
  
He tips his head forward and his shades fall back into place smooth as silk, sit on the bridge of his nose like they were made to be there.  
  
He glances back up at Bro, meeting a passive gaze. He wants to slap himself for it but all he can think is that he hopes he did a good job. He hatehatehates screwing up in front of the coolest guy in the world.  
  
Bro doesn't say a word. He plops his hand down on Dave's head, ruffles his hair with fingers still covered in saliva, then turns and walks away.  
  
He's down the hall before Dave even remembers to breathe.  
He leans back on the countertop, shutting his eyes tight to keep from thinking too much, to ignore the nagging, aching hardness pressing against the seam in the crotch of his jeans.  
  
He realizes he should have glanced down for once, seen if Bro was in the same predicament. Realizes he missed an opportunity, that Bro knows it too and won't let him forget any time soon.  
  
"Fuck."


	2. Fold

It was kind of inevitable. Unavoidable. The way Bro messed with Dave’s head was bound to get to him at some point. A million too-long touches and lingering gazes had left him confused, the purposely poorly disguised gropes during a scuffle endlessly frustrating him. That fucked up little trick with his fingers at dinner was the icing on the cake, an answer that had left Dave terrified and turned on, but a deep breath and an adjustment of his shades had fixed that problem right up. But still, even if he wasn’t showing it, Bro’s freaky teasing was twisting Dave up inside.

So much so that, when left to do his brother’s laundry as a favor (or because he’d been threatened with an ass kicking, whatever,) with Bro’s gloves left right on top of his laundry basket, all obvious and right in Dave’s line of sight, he immediately thought of the worst possible thing he could do with those gloves. Brain warpage was a bad thing for a boy to have.

So now Dave has a choice to make. Standing in the basement laundry area of their apartment building, he holds Bro’s fingerless leather gloves above an open washing machine, looking down into the dark pool of water and fabric and suds inside.

He’s supposed to wash them. Just like everything else.

But…but his fucked up brain is suggesting other things, making him flush and wonder just how long Bro will be out, how long he’d be able to get away with it before Bro is back at his bedroom doorway, leaning in, grinning, knowing exactly what he’d done and mocking him for it.

Dave slams the lid of the washing machine closed, gripping the gloves in one hand.

He’ll put them back later. He’ll wash them with his own clothes and put them back with all of Bro’s stuff and he’d be none the wiser. Maybe. Even if he did catch on, at least Dave’s curiosity will have already been satisfied. It isn’t like he's going to ruin them. Bro cares little enough about them to put them through some clanky old piece of crap washer, he couldn’t possibly get worked up over a few stains.

Dave’s ears are hot in shame as he bounds back upstairs to their apartment with ninja speed, gloves clutched in his hand and no, no he’s totally not flipping his shit. He’s fine. He’s cool. This is all cool.

Dave slips right into his room, locking the door behind him even though he knows for sure Bro is out and even if he were around, a simple lock wouldn’t stop him.

He has a good half hour before the washing machine finishes its cycle- no idea how long Bro will be out though. He never said where he was going, just “out.” He's mysterious like that.

Leaning back against his bedroom door, Dave looks down at the gloves he’s stolen. They already seem filthy and he hasn’t even done anything yet. Cursing under his breath, he sinks to his knees, hurriedly tugging the gloves onto his own hands.

He’s doing this. If he backs out now he’ll just get burned twice as bad when Bro realizes what he’d wanted, but couldn’t quite manage to do.

But no, he can totally do this. It’s totally doable. More doable than fuckin’…than fuckin’…him.

He’s doable.

Or, Bro thinks he is. As far as Dave’s fucked up little fantasy world is concerned, at least. Regardless of what his brother really thinks of the situation, Dave focuses every memory of an awkward touch down to this one moment, shaping his brother’s imaginary intentions into something he can work with.

He flexes his hands inside Bro’s gloves, testing, feeling the fabric stretch and pull and fall back into place, hesitates as he tries to figure out just how this would go if it were real.

Right here on the floor seems fine to him. Sort of quick and dirty, getting it done.

He swallows hard and reaches up to grab his shades, whips them off and tosses them aside. No way would Bro let him keep those bad boys on.

And as for the clothes…well what would Bro do with those? Dave feels naked enough already with nothing to cover his eyes, and as he slips his own hands up along his sides experimentally, he decides that Bro could understand that.

Of course he might want to be a complete dick and strip Dave down to nothing and leave him shivering up until the moment things got too hot.

But for now, with his restrained time limit, Dave can keep his clothes on.

He moves away from the door, up on his knees, and drags his hands up his sides, feeling more than a little stupid, a little sick, as he focuses on the soft leather of Bro’s gloves, the frayed bits along the seams that scratch slightly.

If his hands were just a little bigger…but they’re okay, he guesses. Okay enough.

_You are all kinds of freaky, little bro._

Dave plays the phrase in his head, in his brother’s voice, and nods in response. Yeah, he’s pretty freaky. That’s what he gets for being raised by a freak like Bro.

Bro’s hands would slip back from underneath his shirt, leave him frustrated as he explained how this was going to work.

No careful, girly, gentle bullshit.

He’d see the way Dave shot him a nervous look, even though he really, really didn’t want him to catch that.

_Chill Dave, I’m not gonna fuckin’ hurt you._

“I-I know…”

Shit, he seriously just answered his imagination out loud. Goddamn, he’s slipping, really.

_I take what I want, you get what you want. Got it?_

Dave bites his lower lip, hands hesitating over the closure of his jeans. There’s no turning back from here.

Gloved hands flick open a button, unzip a fly, peel away black denim and some hilariously ironic gambling themed boxers.

Already half-hard at his own twisted imaginings, he brings a hand up to slide two fingers into his mouth as he shudders, getting all kinds of stiff and sensitive in the palm of one glove.

_You have an oral fixation or something, Dave?_

No, Dave thinks, I have a you fixation.

And he sucks his fingers indulgently, eyes closing softly so he can imagine all kinds of other things that he only knows from internet porn and incredibly awkward conversations with John about topics too old for them.

He figures Bro wouldn’t mess around, even if he does like to tease like a complete fucking douchebag. Bro’s fingers would move over his dick the same way they handle a knife, a sword, the fragile little toggles on a game controller, all subtle strength and finesse that Dave tries to mimic, and really, he does a pretty decent job.

And through all this Dave would hold himself together, keep his head upright, tighten the muscles in his thighs till they strain, hurt, the way he’s doing right now, making himself ache just enough. He’d stay strong because he had to, only falter if Bro wanted him to.

Dave shudders and swallows a gasp, bites down lightly on his fingers as his other hand picks up the goddamn pace already because seriously, Bro’s a busy dude and he doesn’t have all day to sit around fondling people.

 _You’re gettin’ sloppy, Dave_ , his imagination quips, so fucking smug it might as well be the real thing.

And dammit he’s right, he is getting sloppy, literally. He’s doing that drooling thing again, so fucking gross, and he swallows thickly around his fingers to try and make himself feel like less of a messy jackass.

The ache in his thighs is distracting, the slow, burning pain highlighting each spark and jolt along his spine and he arches his back, leaning farther, farther, till the pull of muscle makes him whimper and- and shit, he’s going to lose his balance and smash his fucking head open.

He rights himself, dropping the hand at his mouth to splay spit-slicked fingers on the floor, keeping his balance even as he arches his back, rolls his hips, and he’s probably going to be so fucking sore later but he’s not about to stop.

With his fingers out of his mouth he can really hear himself, each rough breath coming out too loud, and fuck his life, Bro is going to come home any second and hear him. He works his hand faster, as close to frantic as a cool guy of his calibre can get, imagines Bro bearing down on him, imagines his own pathetic, fucked up little reflection panting back at him from his brother’s shades.

He’s seriously close, hips hitching all on their own like he’s a mechanical bull stuck on the ‘desperate buck’ setting.

_Beg for it._

Dave’s stroking doesn’t miss a beat.

_Beg for me, Dave._

Because Bro would be enough of an asshole to ask for shit like that. Dave doesn’t even know if that’s the kind of thing he likes but it’s the kind of thing that would embarrass the daylights out of him and that’s probably enough to keep Bro entertained. He’d push Dave to collapse, to whimper and cling and beg please please please, Bro-

“Fuck no-“

His gloved hand tightens, the imaginary smirk spreads wider.

_Good boy._

And Dave comes into his hand with a sharp exhalation, whole body jerking upright before slumping down, dropping him onto his ass to stare hazily at the wall. He can just barely see the photos strung over his bed, just make out his own impassive expression in a series of self-portraits, and he closes his eyes, sprawls on the floor to catch his breath.

It’s then, when the oxygen really hits his brain, that he flips the fuck out.

It’s silent, internal, but powerful, and he holds his breath as he rips Bro’s gloves off his hands, balls them up and throws them across the room so they hit the wall with a dull thud.

Everything feels weird and slow, his mind racing to make up an excuse for how this is totally not weird, totally not even a little bit sick and twisted and he shouldn’t feel even a little bit ashamed. But the gears in his head just spin uselessly, running over a checklist of what makes a seriously fucked up, damaged, sick individual and yup, everything checks out. He is basically a mental case and a complete pervert and maybe he should put all the blame on Bro but fuck if he didn’t just do this all on his own. Nobody put a gun to his head and told him to masturbate into his brother’s gloves, for fuck’s sake. He is the ultimate creeper, worse than any of the freaks frequenting Plush Rump, and the gods of irony are probably weeping over just how uncool he is right now.

He kind of wants to weep over just how uncool he is right now.

But Dave Strider doesn't cry over dumb shit and really, this is all just dumb shit. This will pass. Dave just has to lie on his floor for a while and wait for his nerves to stop screaming.

Once he’s hating himself a little less and he can stand up, Dave gets redressed and picks Bro’s gloves up off the floor. He keeps them balled up tight in his hand as he heads back to the laundry room. He takes the rickety elevator for once because you know what? Fuck stairs, he’s not doing stairs right now.

He finds his Bro’s laundry about to enter the rinse cycle and throws the gloves in there with everything else. He can’t even give half a fuck about whether or not they actually get clean, just as long as they’re not sticky later.

He sits on the dryer, he waits, and when the rinse cycle finishes he transfers everything from washer to dryer, get the rusted heap going, and sits down on it again.

The rumbling and rocking of the machine take him years back, to sitting on that very same dryer, chilling like the coolest of five year olds while Bro fucked around with detergent. For a moment he thinks he might flip out again, have a serious, hardcore emotional breakdown, but the motion of the dryer soothes him, lulls him into indifference.

He’s cool. He’s detached. He’s okay and this is all just ironic as fuck. He’s practically laughing at how much of a joke this is.

When the dryer buzzes under him and rolls to a stop he hops off onto the floor, takes everything out and folds it haphazardly, puts it in Bro’s laundry basket and carries it back upstairs, dropping the basket in the corner of the room.

He leaves the gloves on Bro’s pillow.


	3. Watch

Sometimes Bro brings people home with him.

Not often, almost never really. He’s not that sociable of a guy. But every once in a while he goes out, stays out, and brings somebody back to the apartment.

They always fuck on the futon. Always.

In the past Dave has stumbled in on things he can never unsee. He’s still got the mental image of the CVS cashier girl’s tits burned into his mind from that time when he was like, ten, and he wandered out of his room for a cup of water.

After a while he learned to just stay in his room any time he heard giggling, shuffling, or otherwise sexual sounds from the living room. Less awkward, less potentially traumatizing that way.

Except that in the past few years he’s gotten curious. He’s listened at his door once, maybe twice.

Last month he was poking at a cup of ramen, chillin’ with the lights off because hey, he can hardly see with his shades on anyway why waste the electric, when the front door creaked open and Bro slipped inside with a tall, thin, twenty-something close behind. A guy.

And Dave ducked right the fuck down behind the counter with his dinner in hand. He didn’t get up, didn’t leave. He hadn’t been seen so he stayed put.

He sat and listened as his Bro undressed this random dude and when he was sure they were completely and totally distracted with each other, he peered around the counter and could just barely make out the forms moving on the futon.

It didn’t take a clear view to figure out the guy was sucking Bro’s dick, and Dave didn’t know how to feel about it. Other than ashamed and kind of hot under the collar. All the sex sounds had his boxers feeling way too tight, which was a sure sign of fucked uppedness on his part but hey, he’d been down that road before. Finger sucking, glove stealing, all that messed up stuff and the way he can’t stop staring at his Bro, knowing damn well what’s up but he can’t quite bring himself to admit that he’s got a flaming, filthy, incesty crush on the guy.

He should probably be institutionalized or something.

He watched his Bro get off and felt like scum.

He hid behind the counter till it seemed safe to leave and ollied out, leaving his ramen cup on the floor and actually crawling all the way back to his room just to keep out of sight.

He thought for sure Bro would call him on it the next day and everything would go to hell faster than a princess makeover party at Lalonde’s house, but tomorrow came and went and there was no mention of what a creepy voyeur he was turning into.

Dave figured Bro was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to trip him up, leave him flushed and sick, but as the days crept by and Bro said a whole lot of nothing about anything, he began to suspect there might be something else going on.

Maybe. Bro really hadn’t seen him.

Maybe he had no idea he’d been there. It wasn’t completely impossible. It was a little insane to think of, but maybe he’d actually out-ninja’d his bro for once.

The idea gave him chills, good ones or bad he wasn’t sure.

Either way he couldn’t exactly resist doing it again.

So the next time Bro came home with a girl pretending to be drunker than she really was, Dave hung around.

And again when he came home with a guy in the tightest pair of capri pants he’d ever seen.

And every time he went unnoticed, he got such a fucking thrill it was insane. He was turning into an addict or something. A Bro addict? Wow. Could he possibly be any more of a freakish loser?

.

.

.

The answer is yes.

The space under Bro’s desk allows for a better view of the futon. Dave has figured this out.

When he realizes that it’s getting late and Bro isn’t home yet, he heads out of his bedroom and into the living room, taking up residence in front of the tv to wait.

He picks at a bag of Doritos and watches the tail end of an episode of the real housewives of who gives a fuck, and just when Whatsherface is about to reveal Thatotherwoman’s shocking secret to the group and all the viewers at home, he hears the distinctive clickclickturn of the front door unlocking.

In seconds the television is off and Dave is under the desk, hidden away like a master of urban warfare. Clearly his training has paid off.

From his vantage point he can see his brother stroll in. He sees the chick he’s brought back with him and oh. Her hair is like, four feet long and sort of aqua.

That’s a wig, right? Must be a wig. Ah, yup, definitely a wig. It’s got thin purple streaks down the sides that speak of time spent gluing and styling. There must be an anime convention or something in town.

Bro probably flashed one of his swords, tipped his shades, and made her little heart go pitter patter.

The girl looks on in awe at the rest of the swords, the turn tables, some puppets, whatever happens to be lying around, and makes a show of bending over to study things, flipping up her short skirt, making her obvious cleavage even more obvious. She looks a little flustered and embarrassed every time.

Dave rolls his eyes and practically nods off waiting for things to start up. He stares at the inside of the desk, half cinder-block, half heavy slabs of wood, and takes a moment to think.

Self-reflection is important, you know?

But spending even a minute thinking on his current situation makes him uncomfortable, to the point where he almost wants to sneak out just as quick as he snuck in.

But then he’d get caught for sure and it’d be super awkward so oh wait never mind, they’re already moving on to the futon, fuck that.

He watches Bro like a kid waiting for Santa at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, eyes glued to the scene unfolding in his living room. His throat is tight as he nudges wires out of the way super slow, extra careful, focuses in through the distracting darkness of his own shades.

Bro is right there in front of him, close enough to touch but it’s the costumed girl who’s hips he’s holding, featherlight until she takes a tentative seat beside him. Then she’s twisting and leaning into him, lips meeting lips and it makes Dave’s stomach churn. He doesn’t want to play the part of jealous dick but it’s an awfully easy role to fall into. His heart is pounding and he can hear it in his ears in the relative silence of the room. Bro doesn’t say a word, he hardly ever does, directing the girl on their futon with slight movements, repositioning her hands when she seems too nervous to touch him, stroking her cheek and Dave knows the feel of those gloves, swallows thickly at the memory of well-worn leather on his own skin.

Once they get the ball rolling it doesn’t take long before the girl’s skirt is bunched up around her thighs and even in the dark Dave can see the flush creeping into his brother’s cheeks.

Not from shame, never from shame. That’s more Dave’s thing. Bro’s just honest to god turned on and Dave can’t blame him but hell if he isn’t wondering if throwing on a dumbass magical girl costume wouldn’t get him everything he wants and should never, ever have in life.

If he tries hard enough he can translate the sight of Bro’s fingers dragging over a softer, more feminine midsection into a real, imagined sensation over his own stomach. Or maybe that’s just his own hand. Whoops. Sneaky fucker.

Back on the futon the neon wig drops to the floor and the girl shakes her head to free her natural hair. It’s mousy brown, kind of choppy, wavy, dyed green around the bangs and it’s scrunched and rumpled from being shoved up in a wig all day.

She’s got a round face, kind of cute, but Dave doesn’t focus on the curves of her cheeks, the curves anywhere else on her body. She’s a blur of ruffled fabric and olive skin that’s just barely obscuring the sharper angles and subtle scars of his brother. She’s in the way and he wants to hipcheck her right the fuck off the futon, take her place.

He knows how screwed up that is. He can’t really be bothered to care anymore.

The girl climbs into Bro’s lap, shy, sly, squeaking these little noises like she’s modified her own persona to match somebody’s hentai fantasy.

Dave wonders if Bro has some kind of hentai fantasy. Incest is like, big in Japan or something, right?

Fuck his brain and its constant stream of stupid.

It’s pretty cold in the apartment for a change, but Dave’s face is hot as he watches his brother slip a hand into the girl’s underwear, listens to her moan and assures himself he wouldn’t make a noise that stupid if Bro was touching him.

He likes to think he’d keep total control actually, though considering the way his hand is slipping down to cup the crotch of his own boxers now, maybe his self-control isn’t so hot.

He manages to keep quiet though, which is more than the chick on the futon can say. She squeals and squirms as Bro slides a hand up under her cheap silk blouse and Dave blocks out the sound, focuses in on the slight quirk of Bro’s mouth, the way he smirks like he’s just barely amused. The smirk he wears for Dave is different, and that makes him feel positively warm and fucking fuzzy inside.

The girl murmurs something about stop, stop, slow down, hold on, and Dave wants to snort. Bitch, what are you thinking? If he was on that futon he’d be trying his damndest to just go faster.

If he was in her position he’d be working his fingers into Bro’s hair, pressing closer to him. He’d gasp in only the most cool and acceptable ways and Bro would smirk at him like he’s a challenge. And he would be. Is.

Why isn’t he the one writhing on the goddamn futon?

His cheeks are hot in indignation and he bites the inside of his mouth to keep quiet when he rolls his hips forward, skin brushing fabric brushing skin with too much friction to feel good.

He tries to glare a hole in the back of the girl’s head as she gets up to shimmy out of her underwear and back into Bro’s lap. She makes a little strip show of it and Dave doesn’t even watch, gets distracted as something on the desk above him shifts, a precarious object finally giving up its fight against gravity and dropping and suddenly there’s a puppet arm dangling in front of Dave’s face.

He hates himself for it when he cries out in surprise.

Everything stops.

Bro looks right at him, eyebrow raised, and it’s totally faked when he says, “Dave, the fuck?”

The perfect impression of an older brother who just caught their little bro creeping on the girl he brought home.

At the declaration the girl on their futon turns and catches sight of him. She shrieks, high and fast, covers her partially exposed breasts.

Dave wants to die.

Now would be a perfect time for a giant fucking bird to just bust through the wall and swallow him whole. That would be fantastic right now.

The chick is completely flipping out, climbing off the futon and tugging her shimmering costume back into place, apologizing fast in English and broken Japanese, like she’s the one who fucked up somehow.

No one tells her otherwise.

She grabs up all her things and rushes out of the apartment, hyperventilating and in such a freaked out rush that she forgets some pink, garish accessory on their floor before ducking out and slamming the door.

The room is quiet. Bro doesn’t move from the futon, Dave stays frozen where he is on the floor.

Eventually Bro stands up, pops the collar on his shirt, folds his arms and waits for Dave to come to him.

Dave sits stubbornly on the floor.

He doesn’t budge until Bro becomes frustrated, motions him over with a slight jerk of his head.

Then he pushes himself up off the floor, out from under the desk, forces his body to cooperate in stepping forward, keeping his head up when all he wants to do is skulk off into his room and hide under his bed forever or maybe just jump out the fucking window and be done with it.

“So?”

Dave sets his shoulders that much stiffer, looks up into his Bro’s shades and has to put a serious fucking mental leash on himself just to refrain from looking down, either in shame or curiosity.

“That was pretty slick little bro, I’ll grant you that.”

What?

“Didn’t even see you there till you jumped out of your fucking skin.”

What?

Dave stares up at him, suddenly so much less afraid and disgusted with himself, more overwhelmed by the fact that Bro’s smirk has turned into that smirk, the one that says Dave is doing something right, being every bit of the fucked up little ninja superchild freak show he wants him to be.

“Seriously though, I know you’re a goddamn pervert, you don’t have to hide it.”

There’s a hint of condescension there.

“Takes one to know one,” Dave musters, and it isn’t even half of what he wishes he could say. The fact that he’s staying calm right now is a miracle in and of itself. He turns his next words over in his mouth before he says them, makes sure they’ll come out right, “So you don’t even mind me cockblocking you?”

Bro quirks an eyebrow over his shades, makes Dave feel insignificant as he waits for an answer, wishing it’ll be nah man, you’ll just have to take her place and that is SO wrong that he even HAS that thought at the ready for just such an occasion.

“Don’t let it happen again, bro,” he says instead, and Dave’s shoulders sag a little. He starts to nod, all set to be let off easy on what would have any other guy flipping his shit, seriously pissed off and weirded out but this is Bro he’s dealing with and the guy’s pretty much a freak in his own right.

But some dickwad of a little voice in the back of Dave’s head speaks up and something takes hold of him.

“What about last time?”

It’s not about honesty. He’s not little George Washington standing at the base of a fallen apple juice tree. It’s a sense of pride pushing him to look Bro square in the shades and watch for a telling, marginal movement.

A quick dart of the eyes. To the desk and back.

He didn’t know.

Hedidn’tknowhedidn’tknowhedidn’tknow.

This is seriously the first time he’s caught Dave in the act, the first time he realized what was going on. He had no idea until now and he probably has no idea about the gloves or the staring or the desperation or the wet dreams or anything.

Dave’s chest is tight.

His head is in the fucking clouds.

“How many times have you pulled this shit?”

Bro looks super serious and parental but it’s forced. He never does legitimate anger well and Dave’s not buying it for a second.

“A couple.”

His Bro’s a pro at schooling himself, keeping his poker face in check. His already quirked eyebrow moves the slightest centimeter and that’s all the change in expression Dave needs to know that he’s unsettled.

He watches Dave like he’s a wild tiger set loose in his living room, like a flame hovering half an inch above a path of gasoline that leads straight to his own feet.

He looks at Dave like he’s this dangerous, awful little thing, more than a challenge, and Dave has to swallow down the laugh that wants to burst out of his throat.

“Fucked up, dude,” Bro says, shakes his head a little and turns, heads into the kitchen. He doesn’t sound angry or amused, just a little breathless and Dave wants nothing more than to keep him that way.

But Bro is opening a cabinet and looking through for pop tarts or something, pointedly ignoring him.

The set of his shoulders holds something barely contained, something Dave wants to reach out and poke at, but he knows better.

He ducks his head now to keep up the charade, leaves the room without another word.

He’s giddy as he walks back to his room, giddy as he shuts the door and leans against it.

His head is pounding, pulsing, and the image of Bro’s eyes, dark behind shades and widened in the slightest show of shock, is burned into his brain.

He closes his eyes and sees it, clings to it, savors it and warps it into something more.

Fucked up, dude.

So fucked up.

God you’re so fucked up.

God, Dave, fuck, fuck, such a fucking perv you sick little freak, fuck, yes-

 

He is.

He is and he does not care.


	4. Sink

.

.

.

Dave and his bro don’t talk a lot.

They’ve moved around each other in a shared space for years, learning to communicate with glances and gestures, keeping conversation to a minimum and almost never taking time to discuss anything more serious than which place to order pizza from or where a rented game has disappeared to. Half the time Bro isn’t even around for Dave to try and talk to in the first place.

But as used to the relative silence of an empty apartment as Dave is, the last few weeks have been disturbingly quiet.

The few times he’s seen Bro lately, the guy has been visibly on edge, and that alone is enough to weird Dave out. The only time his Bro gets tense like this is around tax season maybe, or when there are police officers inexplicably checking around the neighborhood for unauthorized weapons and shit (the whole damn fridge goes into hiding those days,) or on December 1st for some reason that Dave has never understood, will never ask about.

He’s used to seeing Bro completely chill, totally aloof. It almost just barely sometimes hurts his feelings but frankly, most of the time, Bro doesn’t even seem to notice him.

Now he won’t stop noticing him.

He walks into a room and Bro is there for seconds, nanoseconds even, before he shoots Dave a quick look and flashsteps out. They pass each other in the hallway and where Bro’s gaze used to stay strictly on the wall ahead of him, as he walked in his own space like Dave wasn’t even there, now he’s checking back and forth, looking ahead and back to Dave, ahead and back to Dave, like he doesn’t trust him, has to keep an eye on him.

He always thought Bro watched him effortlessly. Now he has to wonder. If he can out maneuver the guy and keep from getting caught when he’s indulging in some crazy voyeuristic antics, maybe his Bro isn’t as in control as he thought.

But if Bro isn’t in control, just who the fuck is?

The possibility that Bro isn’t quite as much of a freaky ninja mastermind as he thought enters Dave’s mind, tries to take root.

It’s uncomfortable. The idea shakes things up, shakes him, and in the end he just shakes it all off.

He doesn’t like it so he throws it out. He carries on like nothing’s changed.

When his arm brushes Bro’s accidentally, the result of a careless movement in a galley kitchen, Bro seems to jump. He gives Dave such a look, this almost-sick expression taking hold of him. He grabs up the can of soda he’s come in for and flashsteps out before Dave can blink.

And inside his head, Dave puts two and two together, a comfortable two and two, an answer that doesn’t make his chest ache, makes him a little dizzy instead, leaves him that much more flushed in the Texas heat.

Bro is just as fucked up as him.

Of course he is, he always has been. He’s just as much of a perverted freak as Dave himself, hell, he taught Dave the fine art of being a freak. He’s been on edge ever since he caught Dave hiding out under the desk, watching him get it on with some chick he picked up god knows where, and the realization of what his little brother is up to, what he’s inspired in him, must have him wigging out.

The same way Dave was wigging out when he started feeling all this shit. He’s edgy like Dave was edgy. He’s watching Dave like a hawk because he’s waiting for something, expecting something from him. Maybe. He’s calculating, judging, looking for the perfect way to one-up Dave in levels of creepy incestuous weirdness, clearly. Maybe.

Maybe, says a voice in Dave’s head that sounds suspiciously like Lalonde, you are just seeing what you want to.

But Dave doesn’t like that idea either. It gets tossed out like a lone, blackened onion stuck to the bottom shelf in the back of the fridge.

Because really, when he thinks about it, the whole thing makes sense. It fits this way, doesn’t make him want to bang his head against a wall this way. Bro feels the same. That’s it. That’s all. Bro messes with him because he’s got an incestuous streak just as bad as Dave’s. That’s what the trick with the fingers was about, what all the nearly-groping fights are for. That’s why he teases him like a motherfucker. He’s been messing with Dave’s head this whole time and you know, it doesn’t even bother him. Fucking with each other is the basis of their relationship.

But if he lets Bro know he’s cool with this, maybe that can change to just plain fucking each other.

Alone in the kitchen, Dave feels sick and victorious, feels hopeful.

.

.

.

It’s hot as balls, basically.

Not that it isn’t hot as balls the majority of the time. That sort of thing comes with the territory of being stuck in a southern state. But it’s July and the weather is absolutely hellish. The pavement is steaming. The slick, suited assholes on the local news are kindly, gently, condescendingly reminding every dipshit in the area to stay inside and stay cool. There’s a weather warning in effect, keep an eye on those children and old people so they don’t shrivel up and die when you’re not looking. Be careful with those air conditioners so you don’t cause a rolling black out! Golly, then everyone would be in a tough spot, huh?

Dave does his part for the energy crisis by continuing to not have an air conditioner.

They’ve got every fan on full blast though, so maybe that’s not helping so much. Dave’s doing everything he can to keep from overheating- drinking about fifty gallons of water, laying low on the physical activity, wearing light clothing. Or, no clothing. He’s lounging around the house in just his boxers which, yeah, has a lot to do with the heat, but also a lot to do with the fact that Bro is home.

Dave isn’t one hundred percent sure what his Bro does for work outside of the smuppet site, but whatever it is he’s off from it today. Too damn hot to get anything done, apparently. He seems pretty pissed about it too, kind of antsy, and since Dave clawed his way out of his sweatball of a bed today, Bro’s been parked in front of the computer, clicking away and securing smuppet orders for mail order scumbags.

Dave keeps his eyes off the screen (all that puppet shit has traumatized him enough over the years, thanks,) but silently admires his Bro’s dedication to getting shit done.

He lazes on the futon, sprawls in hope that the not-enough breeze of the fan will reach him and, to his frustration, Bro keep his eyes off him.

It’s only when he twists on the futon, stretches out and cracks something somewhere (maybe it’s his hips? He can hardly feel it,) that Bro looks up and over his shoulder at him.

It’s quick, as always, barely a glance before he’s looking back at the computer.

But he’s lost his focus, Dave can tell. The set of his shoulders is tense and as soon as Dave makes another noise, Bro is looking over his shoulder again.

It’s unnerving to have somebody behind you, not knowing what they’re up to. Dave knows the feeling.

He abuses that, captures Bro’s attention in tiny snatches of time, clearing his throat, repositioning himself, picking up the remote and turning it over in his hands, never turning the television on.

When he gets up and says he’s getting more water, yes more, it’s a fucking heat wave, gotta replace whatever he sweats out, he asks if his Bro wants anything.

This time his gaze lingers a moment longer, just long enough to give Dave a glance over, study his expression, like he’s looking for a clear motive.

“Sure. Glass of water.”

Then back to the computer.

Dave steps from living room to kitchen in one lazy stretch of his legs, rummages through cabinets till he finds a slightly dusty, unopened pack of plastic cups.

He pulls two cups from the pack and fills them at the sink, glances back into the living room halfway through filling the second one and Bro is looking at him.

They both turn around fast enough to cause whiplash, and as Dave turns off the faucet his insides are doing some serious gymnastics.

This is weird. This is weird and wrong and he shouldn’t even be trying it. He shouldn’t be walking around the apartment practically naked and hoping his Bro will notice, getting all kinds of excited when he does. It’s weird and wrong and stupid and kind of pathetic.

Except maybe he’ll get something out of it and maybe it’s worth it and maybe he should just tell his brain to shut the fuck up and get back to the living room.

Cups of water in hand, Dave steps back into the living room. He hands one cup off with a “yo,” and sits down on the arm of the futon.

Bro takes the offered cup with a noncommittal grunt, immediately downs half the water and pointedly looks at things that aren’t Dave.

He looks about as hot as Dave feels, which is near the melting level, and his t-shirt is pretty completely soaked with sweat. That should be gross, really gross, but when Dave studies his back, the wet patch stretched across it, all he can think is that if he pried that shirt off of him all he’d be left with is slick skin, salt under his tongue-

“It’s pretty fucked up,” Dave says, and Bro actually turns around in his chair to look at him. He raises both eyebrows like ‘Dave what the fuck are you doing speaking to me, you know we don’t do that shit’ but Dave shrugs it off. Desperate times call for desperate measures and maybe it’s the heat making him light headed but he’s getting pretty desperate.

“This global warming shit,” He continues, only half a clue what he’s saying before he says it, just running with this, “Seriously uncool.”

Bro scoffs, doesn’t turn away, “Pretty sure you’re supposed to call it climate change now.”

Dave swallows hard. Bro’s actually talking to him. Responding to what he’s saying which is more than he’s done in what feels like forever so he’s got to keep this up, has to keep pushing forward, “Fuck that. It’s hotter than Satan’s personal lava pits in here, there’s got to be something fucked up in the environment.”

Still, Bro doesn’t turn back around. He looks almost amused, “You some kind of environmental expert now?”

Dave shrugs, leans back a little on the arm of the futon, “Just sayin’. It’s not normal.”

Bro just goes ‘hmm,’ and for a second Dave panics. It’s not normal he’s not normal this is not normal-

Bro turns his chair around all the way so they’re face to face. On the screen behind him an instant message is minimized, blinking, and off to one side the familiar banner of Plush Rump flashes in jarring color.

Dave fumbles, averts his eyes, searches for something to get a hold of and comes up short. He’s a hot mess, a literal hot mess as the sweat collects under his shades, fucking gross and he wants to whip them off and wipe his face but Bro is right there in front of him, right there.

There and kind of almost smiling. Smiling like everything’s okay. Like things are cool.

And Dave is cool. He sighs the slightest noise, relaxes completely, feels alright. He chills the fuck out and breathes easier in the stuffy room.

They slip into casual conversation the way they haven’t in ages, start speaking in memes and quoting hilarious, shit movies at each other. They trade rhymes and scathing comments about everyone else in the world. Bro leans back in his chair and Dave leans forward, gripping the arm of the futon on either side of him, smirking, almost laughing, moving immediately to defend himself when Bro looks like he’s going to strike. He gets a nod of approval for that, only relaxes again when Bro makes it clear he’s not about to attack.

The whole mood of the room shifts and Dave doesn’t feel like a freak, like trash. He’s the perfect, inhuman, ironic ninja space baby all grown up and Bro is just Bro. He’s Bro with hands he wants on him, leather gloves cast aside in light of the heat. He’s Bro with this hair he wants to run his fingers through, this spikey, awesome anime hair because it’s just so fucking hilarious to style it that way and it practically comes naturally. He’s Bro with a smirk Dave basks in, a smirk he wants to kiss right off his face.

He’s everything Dave’s had pounding away inside his head long enough to drive him batshit and with him looking so totally content, so cool, Dave starts to feel the same. He’s confident, he’s got a hold of himself for once, he’s cool as fuck and he can do whatever he wants because it’s all good, they’re on the same page here.

Dave is in good graces and he feels like the king of the world. He wants a boat to climb on so he can shout it to the open sea and make a complete tool of himself, like that doomed asshat in Titanic.

But they don’t have a boat so he just climbs on Bro instead.

It happens in an instant, feels like eternity when he makes his move, stealthy across the foot and a half of space between desk and futon. He sinks into Bro’s lap, hot, damp skin against stiff, constrictive fabric and before his expression can shift from lightly amused to surprised to turned on to horrified to anything else, Dave presses himself close and kisses his brother’s lips, catching the corner of his mouth, shifts till he gets it, meets his mark.

He goes for it because it just felt right, continues to feel right as he jerks his hips up close, molds himself to the hot, sweat soaked form of his brother’s body. He works his mouth against Bro’s and his brain is on fire, mixing a desperate mashup plea on repeat, a demand to respond, reciprocate, to grab hold and sweat and move and just fucking kiss him back already.

After way too long, not enough time, Bro’s hands come up to grip Dave’s shoulders, shove him away.

Even behind his shades, Dave can see his eyes are wide. Not shocked, just wide.

He shoves Dave again, right out of his lap, and he has to use all the catlike skill he’s been taught not to fall over. He grabs for the arm of the futon, pulls himself up and stares back at his brother, blood rushing to turn his face splotchy pink. It’s overwhelming in the already hot room and for a second his vision blurs. It narrows down, spreads back out, and when he blinks it right again Bro is still looking at him like he’s one sick puppy.

He is. Fuck, he is, and he’s an idiot too.

Bro is on his feet in seconds, shoulders set again, “That’s not fucking funny.”

Dave’s stomach drops out. He feels dizzy, sicker than ever, so close to puking right here in the living room, “…wasn’t a joke.”

Bro looks at him hard, like he can rip a hole right through him with his eyes, tear up his insides and find what’s gotten into him. Dave keeps his eyes on Bro’s shades, sees his own all too terrified reflection and wonders if Bro can see himself the same way.

“You were seriously just kissing me? For shits and giggles?”

Hardly. Hardly for anything close to that. It’s way more serious and disturbing in how bad it’s gripping him, driving him to this.

“I…” It’s all Dave can say. His throat’s gone dry and he doesn’t even bother to reach for the rest of his water. He doesn’t know what he’d say if he could speak.

“…seriously?”

Bro’s voice is low, soft, but the look in his eyes says it all. He’s freaked out, he’s disgusted, he’s even got this weird pink flush to his face which is such an unfamiliar sight it’s almost got Dave distracted.

It’d look so good if this had just gone differently. If Dave had slid into Bro’s lap and kissed him and Bro kissed him back and they just fucking did it already and afterward Bro would stroke the scars on Dave’s back with the pads of his fingers, scars he put there in a rooftop strife that ended with Dave skidding right the fuck across the asphalt and scraping the shit out of his skin and Dave would feel like-

Like he was doing everything right. Like Bro wanted him and he wasn’t completely warped and awful. Like he was worth…something.

He doesn’t even know how he’d feel, how he wants to feel. This is stupid. Incest is stupid. Life is stupid. He just wants to go to his room and fucking hide forever but Bro won’t let him, stops him by reaching out and snatching the shades right off his face, leaving him exposed and frozen in shock.

Fuck his life if he cries right now, fuck it dry with a hot poker.

“Dave,” Bro says, stern, still soft, “Seriously?”

He’s falling to pieces inside, crumbling away into some tiny little kid version of himself but somehow he keeps a handle on it, sets his expression, meets Bro’s eyes behind his shades, “Yeah.”

His brother’s response is instantaneous, authoritative, “No. No, you can’t do that.”

What?

What?

“I can’t what?”

He knows the answer, thinks it’s bullshit.

“Can’t what?” He repeats in disbelief, “Kiss you? Want to fuck you?” Bro visibly tenses at that, damn near twitches, but Dave’s still dry-mouth won’t stop spitting out words now. His tongue is getting away from him, slipping out all this hysterical shit and he’s nearly laughing, getting angry now, “I can’t like you that way?”

“Well you can’t exactly act on it,” Bro says, a little harsher, and it’s not what Dave was expecting.

It doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

He knows why not. He knows a million reasons why not because he’s gone over them already himself, hunched over his keyboard and talking to Egbert about total bullshit and Harley about fluffy kittens and Lalonde about his apparent phallic obsession, whatever, and not really paying attention to any of it because he’s writing up a list, an actual goddamn word document list and striking through the things he can’t give a fuck about.

When it comes down to it the only item left on the list, the only issue he can pull up on file in his brain right now, is how Bro feels. It’s the only variable that matters, the only thing keeping him from just jumping ship and diving into the great open sea of fucked up relations and he thought he had it, he really did. He thought for half a second there that his desperate, stupid wishing would cross paths with reality and make his brother kiss him back.

He thought maybe Bro was cool with this.

Now he thinks back on the evidence he was compiling, every awkward glance, every slight touch, and he wonders if he made it all up, if he’s hallucinating this entire thing.

No. No, can’t be. There’s one thing that jumps to mind, the two minute fucked up interlude that kickstarted him on the path to frustration, damnation if he’s gonna believe that for half a second, that landed him here.

He moaned around his brother’s fingers and it wasn’t a joke. Couldn’t have been a joke. What was that even? What was he supposed to take from that?

What did Bro mean by it?

Nothing?

A hot iron of shame is burning a hole through Dave’s chest and his mouth isn’t dry anymore as he thinks of drooling all over himself and looking like such an idiot and he feels used, not wanted. Not at all like he wanted.

“Oh but you, you can fuck with my head?” The words come out in a rush. He’s got to look ridiculous now, all flushed and totally losing his cool, still standing in his boxers and half hard because he was just all up in his brother’s lap, squirming around like a jackass and making an idiot of himself and god dammit he wishes he was still there, “And I’ll just go off and pretend like I’m normal, like you didn’t jam your fingers down my throat and ogle me every fucking which way and-“ As fast as it came, the fire in him goes out. He doesn’t know where to go with this. He’s left with nothing, left nauseous and if he threw up now there’d only be bile and water and the thought makes him shudder, “…and all that shit.”

Bro just stares at him.

For a long time Dave thinks he’s gearing up to say something, piecing the thought together.

But the moment drags on and on and then he realizes that he’s got nothing too.

Bro doesn’t know what to do and holy shit, Bro doesn’t know what to do and Dave is about five seconds away from flipping right the fuck out. He looks to Bro, frantic, silently pleading, knowing it’s got to be showing all over his face with nothing to hide behind.

He needs something, anything, will take whatever Bro is willing to give him just as long as it’s not nothing.

Without a word, Bro drops Dave’s shades on the desk and turns around, walks out of the room, down the hall.

Dave is trying not to dry heave in the middle of the floor. A room away, he hears the shower running.

Stuck in slow motion, Dave picks up his shades and follows his brother’s path down the sweltering hallway, goes past the bathroom and into his own bedroom.

His bed still feels like a sweatball but he climbs into it anyway, lies face down across the mattress and listens to the disruption of air through his fan.

The shower is still running when he falls into an uneasy midday sleep.

.

.

.

It’s morning again. Still hot as balls.

The apartment is quiet, and when Dave reluctantly gets up, pulls a shirt on and heads out of his room, he’s hoping that he’s alone as usual.

He walks into the living room and ah, yup-

Bro is in the kitchen. Awesome.

He keeps his head down, his mouth shut (there’s an awful taste in it, god, he just wants to spit his own tongue out,) moves like a zombie and feels like one.

But the room smells like something and it’s throwing him off. It’s like…like pancakes. Like oh my god Bro made pancakes, like real ones on the stove, holy shit.

Dave looks from afar, baffled, concerned, as his brother sets out a paper plate, pulls a bottle of apple juice from the fridge (unopened, doesn’t even have a sword through it.)

Dave watches it happen and his heart’s in his throat, gagging him something fierce.

This is not his Bro. This is not his apartment. He’s having some weird dream, some wet dream, and any minute Bro’s going to tell him he has to strip if he wants breakfast or something, something fucked up in the right way that isn’t this.

Bro looks up at him and Dave freezes.

“Hey, sup.”

He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound overly friendly either. Just blank.

Dave blinks, says nothing in response.

“There was jackshit in the cupboard so I made breakfast,” He gestures to the pan on the stove, steps away from the kitchen appliances and into the living room. He’s just a few feet away and Dave looks at him like he’s a stranger. Bro moves right past him, picking up something next to his turntables and slipping it into his pocket, “I’m goin’ to work. Heat’s not gonna kill anybody today so we’re in the clear.”

Still, Dave says nothing.

Bro heads to the door, pauses to give Dave a salute, almost a wave, “Later, kid.”

Kid?

Dave barely raises his hand to return the gesture before the door is shut and Bro is gone.

Kid?

He looks to the pancakes on the stove and feels his insides plummet.

No. Nononononono. This isn’t right. This isn’t them. This isn’t what he wanted and it’s weird and uncomfortable and it’s making his skin crawl with just how wrong it is.

Every inch of him is this shuddery mess of person, his heart beating too fast as he tries to think back, replay yesterday as much as it sucked, doesn’t let himself get hung up on the memory of his lips against Bro’s even though that’s a filthy corner of his mind he’s more than happy to inhabit, puzzles out just what the fuck he might have done to deserve this and he doesn’t get it.

He turns on his heel and goes back to his room, gets back into bed, immediately gets up again because his sheets feel disgusting.

He sits in the computer chair instead.

He freaks out, more than just a little, loses himself.

He’s Dave who can’t even pretend to be cool, delusional Dave. He’s playing the part of the damaged teenager, the angsting fuck up, the kid with daddy issues begging please love me, please, I need this, just let me be yours, please.

Are Bro issues the same as daddy issues? Is there even a distinction when your Bro is your ectodad adoptive guardian sword fighting father music mentor protector thing?

Either way he’s looking for attention and hey, wow, he just got it.

Bro just looked at him, spoke to him, made him food and said goodbye before he left like he thought he might care. It should be a good thing. He should be okay.

Except it’s fake. So totally fake and not at all their thing.

Their thing is awkward and hot and humiliating and it makes Dave question himself constantly but it’s familiar and this- this is new territory that Dave can’t navigate. He doesn’t know how to fight this battle, work a tactic against an offer for breakfast. He doesn’t know how to fit his badass, infuriating tease of a brother into this kind of a life.

He can’t handle this.

He can’t be Bro’s kid.

Dave leans forward to rest his arms on his desk, rests his head on top of them. His shades press uncomfortably at his temple and he doesn’t move them.


	5. Hold

.

.

.

For weeks they don’t talk about it.

They talk a little here and there, hellos and goodbyes, quick questions, nothing big. They avoid the topic.

Dave keeps his mouth shut like his lips never even brushed his brother’s, like he’s not thinking about it every time he lets his train of thought drift away and down a dark path that always leaves him feeling just as miserable as when Bro first pushed him away.

To his credit, Bro is nice to him. Not overly nice or anything, he’s not a complete suck up, but he buys the brand of pizza bagels Dave likes and doesn’t trip him down the stairs.

He pretends like he never had Dave squirming into his lap, already hot for him, and expects Dave to play along. Which he does, all the while hating Bro just a little, never enough.

The act like they’re normal, semi-normal, and Bro calls Dave ‘kid’ and won’t strife with him, won’t really look at him for too long, and Dave cringes his way through every day.

They settle into a routine that’s about as comfortable as a seat made of cactus and brillo pads, stare at their separate computers and just keep getting by.

.

.

.

One day Bro turns up in Dave’s doorway and the world comes screeching to a halt.

Bro never comes in Dave’s room. Not when he’s already there, anyway. Dave thinks he can count on one hand all the times his brother has stepped foot inside his bedroom, and two of those were when he had to physically carry Dave to bed because his ribs were bruised as fuck and he was limping from almost flipping right the fuck off their apartment building and skidding to a stop just in time.

Even then it had felt strange having him in his personal space. Now it’s a complete invasion of privacy. Just because the door was open doesn’t mean Dave’s accepting visitors.

He turns his desk chair slightly, stares blankly as his brother offers a quick jerk of the head, a silent ‘sup,’ and knows immediately there’s no getting out of this. Whatever this is.

His mind is already racing with possibilities, explanations, some exciting, some horrifying, and he knows damn well Bro isn’t going to pull a ‘jk man, why don’t we make out?’ but his pulse still picks up at the idea.

He’s _pretty_ sure Bro won’t pull an ‘I actually can’t stand your freaky ass anymore, get the fuck out of my house,’ but the thought still enters his mind and the fear is overwhelming.

He types a quick message to Jade- _bullshit goin down mlady talk to you later_ \- and closes out of Pesterchum.

He swivels his chair all the way around, stares up at Bro like he’s awaiting orders, maybe looking for a fight.

“You busy?” Bro asks, casual, leaning against the doorframe with one shoulder, arms loosely crossed.

Behind his shades, Dave narrows his eyes. Busy? When the hell is he ever busy? And when does it even matter? If Bro wants him for something other shit gets dropped.

“Nah, hit me.”

He half-wishes he really would.

Bro shifts his weight just slightly, steps that much further into Dave’s room and it sets his skeleton on edge, a deep down disruption that only sinks in further, heavy as he says, “I wanted to talk to you.”

Talk to him.

Like, really _talk_ to him. A real conversation, about something important, probably something awful.

“So talk,” Dave says, a little sharp, and he sounds so much like a pissy teenager that he wants to permanently gag himself, never say anything stupid and damning again. He’ll just live out the rest of his days communicating through text, languishing in silent angst and no one will have to know.

Bro raises his eyebrows, maybe surprised, maybe ready to kick his ass for taking that kind of tone, but eventually shrugs it off and says, “Alright, but you’re not going to like what’s I’ve got to say.”

Dave sits further back in his chair, waits on the metaphorical edge.

“The other day,” Bro starts, and they both know which other day he’s talking about, there can’t be any other day that needs a full goddamn discussion, “You said that I can fuck with your head and you can’t do anything about it.”

He leaves it as a statement of fact, waits for Dave’s response and when his expectant stare gets to be too much, Dave cracks, “…yeah I did.”

What more does he want from him?

“Because I messed with you and now you’re stuck with some incestuous shit, and that’s not cool.”

Dave tenses, bites the inside of his mouth to keep calm, keep control. Why doesn’t he just rub it in? Get some salt for those wounds, cure the fuck out of him and call him jerky.

“And it’s true, you can’t do anything about it,” Bro continues, looking down at Dave lazily, not quite focusing, and the urge to grab him by the sides of the head and make him _look him in the eyes_ is rising, “So I’m sorry.”

Dave bites down harder, shocks himself with the pain.

What?

He narrows his eyes, looks closer like that will help him make sure he heard it right.

_Sorry?_

“I took advantage of the situation and it was wrong of me,” Bro explains, unfolds his arms and spreads them wide in a vague, apologetic shrug, like he’s missed a catch, dropped something breakable and replaceable, a clichéd ‘my bad’ in the middle of a crisis, “I was just messin’ with you, man. Wasn’t expecting you to take it so seriously.”

Dave swallows and there’s blood in his mouth, only a little but the taste of it is choking, stomach turning. He must look confused, horrified, something, because Bro drops his arms, expression softening a little.

“Lemme even with you,” He says, more careful, “Sometimes I forget you’re just a kid,” There’s that word again and Dave wants to spit when he hears it, get the coppery taste out of his mouth and let Bro see the evidence there on the floor, “I’ve got my own things going on and I forget sometimes. I forget I’ve got to treat you differently.”

“You don’t-“

Dave starts to speak, finally, but he can only get so many words out before Bro is holding up a hand to silence him, shaking his head, “Nah, I do. Whatever fucked up power play shit I do on my own time doesn’t cross over to you. Shouldn’t, anyway. Gotta remember that.”

Dave presses his tongue to the cut in his mouth, furrows his brow.

“There’s just some things you can’t do,” He says, like it’s a basic fact of life, and Dave nods slowly, shows his understanding.

Dave opens his mouth and Bro makes no move to stop him so he takes advantage of the opportunity, makes the man flinch like before, “Like fuck your brother.”

“…right.”

“Right.”

Bro clears his throat, stands up straighter, “So yeah. Sorry I messed with you, bro. Didn’t realize you’d run with it like that. Nothing personal.”

Dave swallows again, the taste of blood gone, washed out as he thinks of Bro messing with him, remembers the fingers in his mouth and salivates and puts on a sideways smile, like he’s sorry too.

“Of course. I mean. I didn’t _really_ think you wanted to screw me or anything.”

“Of course not.”

“You were just…fuckin’ around.”

“Exactly.”

“That _was_ pretty fucked up of you.”

“Yeah. ‘Fraid I’m nothing but a bad influence.”

“Hm.”

“But now that’s cleared up so there’s no reason for you to be confused.”

He stares Dave down, waiting for the right answer, one he doesn’t want to give.

Because he’s _not_ confused, he’s pretty fucking clear on what he wants. He just can’t say that because it’s not allowed, apparently, in the three ring circus of their already fucked up life.

“Yeah…I guess I was just pretty friggin’ misguided,” Dave says slowly, weighing the words and they’re not at all what he wants to be saying, he’s not even sure where they’re coming from. They’re convenient lies and the best he can do.

“So,” Bro says with finality, “No more of that shit, right?”

Dave considers making him clarify. No more of what? Kissing or crushing on him or no more of Bro using him to satisfy whatever kind of screwed up power fetish he’s got going on but, you know, it’s nothing personal-

“Sure.”

Sure, no more. They’ll just keep avoiding each other and sitting on edge, living in a goddamn dream world until the day Dave moves out and the whole problem will go away.

Sure, no more of that shit.

Dave turns his chair slightly, silently asking if the conversation is over, if he can go back to distracting himself with Harley’s talk of genetically altered squash or whatever the hell she wants to chat about.

Bro eyes him for just a few seconds longer before nodding curtly, turning and walking out of Dave’s room.

That’s that, then.

.

.

.

But that’s that implies that the thing is over, and it’s not. Dave can swear up and down that he’s not going to jump his brother in the shower, can say he doesn’t even want him that way after all, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, from wanting him just as much as he ever did.

The guy has wormed his way into Dave’s brain and even if it was all just a game, just a fucked up little play for even more control, lust is lust. Bro sparked something in him and now it _just won’t die_.

He makes an honest effort to cut that shit out, really. He focuses on how pissed he is, how little Bro even deserves his affection because he’s a giant douche.

But _he’s_ the one who wants all the affection, and pretending like he’s denying his brother something special just makes him feel worse, like he’s trying too hard to inflate his own ego.

He stays in his room, away from Bro, and Bro keeps well away from him.

He watches porn, a lot of porn, but it’s boring and frustrating and nothing really catches his attention. Pointless sex is stupid. Sex in general is stupid. He’d be fucking thrilled just to want to be _around_ someone else at this point but Bro is basically it. He’s the only nearby person in Dave’s world, the only person he really, _really_ wants around anyway.

He clears his browser history and checks it twice to make sure it’s clean.

He talks to his friends and almost lets himself redirect his crush. It’s a toss-up between two derps, he decides, a race to the finish for Strider affections because he can’t decide whose handle he’s more excited to see light up his chumroll, Harley’s or Egbert’s. Maybe he’s just got a thing for bespectacled dorks.

Maybe he’s just a little desperate for someone to pay attention to him.

He teases both of them mercilessly, pesters them constantly, and waits for one of them to notice.

Of course Jade seems completely oblivious to any flirtatious intentions, or at least she’s pretending to be, and John is oblivious to anything that isn’t wrapped in a shitty old VHS box and stapled to a pack of magic tricks for curious kids.

Neither crush really goes anywhere.

Rose pesters him and asks how he’s doing. She says he’s seemed just a touch less of a pretentious prick recently, that perhaps he is, dare she say, moping. She’s concerned that something is bothering him, asks if he cares to share with her, so that she might be able to offer her very nearly professional opinion.

He tells her to stuff it and pretty much ignores any message from her that opens with ‘Strider, it seems-‘ because her commentary on what ‘seems’ in his life never ends well.

He doesn’t breathe a word of the thing with his brother to anyone. It’s his issue to deal with and he doesn’t want to freak anyone out with it, absolutely doesn’t want to give Lalonde a legitimate reason to analyze him.

Even though he’s pretty sure he could use a good analysis.

Dave signs out of Pesterchum at four in the morning because Lalonde is still wide awake and trying to understand him and Egbert has passed the fuck out in the middle of a set of purely ironic but kind of serious rhymes dedicated to the soul shaking blue of his eyes. He’s bored of the internet and his eyes hurt, so he turns his computer off and creeps out of his room to see if Bro is even home.

If the futon is empty, if he stayed out for something, Dave figures he can sprawl out and listen to pointless TV until he feels like sleeping. If not, he’ll just have to sneak back to his bedroom and stare at the ceiling instead.

Stepping out of the hallway and into the living room, Dave can already tell that the futon is occupied. Bro is laid out, one shoulder visible over the back cushions.

Which means Dave should turn around and go back.

It means he should turn around and go back _right now_.

But instead his feet take him forward, further into the room, until he’s standing beside the futon, all on edge, looking down at his brother’s sleeping form.

It’s so seldom he sees him _not_ moving, not busy. It’s weird. He keeps thinking that Bro should have heard him already, should be sleeping with one eye open, will sit up any second and tell him to go the fuck to bed, but he doesn’t.

He’s out cold and a quick glance to the table holding their game controllers tells Dave why. There’s two large, empty bottles nestled in next to a mass of wires.

Dave can’t remember the last time he saw Bro drink. It practically never happens, since as far as he’s told Dave, he’s not really a fan. Being off your game is basically a sin in the Strider household, and there isn’t a whole lot that will throw a guy off his game better than alcohol.

If Bro was drinking, Dave reasons, it’s probably because something was bothering him.

The voice in his head that suggests this sounds like his own, but it’s put through such a Rose-heavy filter that it makes him wince. He’s not about to sit here and ponder over his brother’s life choices. Down that road lies madness, and probably a really depressing touch of disappointing reality.

Now Dave should _really_ go back to his room. He’s got no reason to stay, there’s nothing left to see, but he just can’t get himself to go to bed just yet.

“Bro,” He says in a whisper, waits.

His brother doesn’t move.

“Bro,” He tries, a little louder. He watches the rise and fall of Bro’s chest, can just barely hear his breathing, but he doesn’t get an answer.

He’s seriously _out_ , and that’s a little unsettling.

He comes around to the front of the couch, crouches down slightly, studies his brother’s face. His shades are off (of course, can’t have them breaking,) but his eyes are closed and like this, he hardly looks dangerous at all.

He’s still handsome as all get out and Dave barely feels weird for thinking it when there’s no accusing stare settled on him.

He reaches out a hand, pokes his brother’s shoulder lightly. He doesn’t move, and Dave takes in a quick breath as his brain hatches a hundred stupid plans, none of which he should act on.

He pokes Bro again, brushes his hand over his upper arm, down to where his sleeve meets skin and fifty of those stupid plans fade to nothing, forgotten. He should probably just go to bed.

He sits down on the edge of the couch. There’s just enough space for him and if that’s not a sign, what is? Another thirty plans jump ship and he’s left with twenty things he really shouldn’t do.

Bro’s breathing is even until Dave moves to bring his legs up onto the futon, careful to keep to the small space available. He stirs slightly and Dave freezes, waits, almost panics.

He doesn’t look at Dave, but he makes a vague, grumbling noise, and seems tense until Dave utters a soothing ‘shhh,’ sounding calm even as his heart leaps into his throat.

After a moment, Bro sighs and sleeps on. Dave lets out the breath he was holding.

He takes his shades off and holds them in one hand, safe. Carefully, moving like he might set off a bomb, he lays down. There are fifteen things he shouldn’t be doing, ten things, five things. He settles in, rests his head against his brother’s chest, and narrows it down to three plans for things he shouldn’t do.

He lays still, barely breathing, and his brother is out cold. He thinks about what will happen if Bro wakes up before him, wonders if he can feign innocence. Saying he had a nightmare would hardly fly even when he was little, forget about now. If Bro realizes what he’s up to there will be no explanation.

He’ll have to tell him the truth, and it’s everything he’s already heard.

Dave swallows, turns slightly, nuzzles into his brother’s chest. He’s warm and there are two things he shouldn’t be doing, one.

He drapes an arm over Bro’s midsection and holds him while it’s safe to, drifts uneasily into sleep.

.

.

.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lenalis/Renaris did a really, really gorgeous bit of art based on this chapter by the way. Check it out for it is lovely.
> 
> http://renaris.tumblr.com/post/19803732262/he-thinks-about-what-will-happen-if-bro-wakes-up


	6. Stop

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.

.

When Dave wakes up it’s because his brother is moving next to him.

He’s trained to be a notoriously light sleeper and the lazy shift of the body beside his jolts him out of a dream so fast he can’t remember what it was about.

It’s later than Dave ever wants to sleep in, judging by the light in the room. Later than Bro ever _lets_ him sleep in, definitely. He feels scrunched, one shoulder pinching and aching from being slept on at a bad angle. He’s twisted sideways, but his back’s to Bro’s chest and he’s so warm he doesn’t want to get up, never.

Bro moves slower than usual, a touch above sluggish, and Dave wants to open his eyes and see if he looks like death warmed over, but he doesn’t dare. He feigns sleep a moment longer, tries to swallow around the heart pounding in his throat, enjoys the heat of a body against his for just a second more before-

“…Dave.”

Bro’s voice is groggy, lacking its familiar edge, but the sound makes Dave freeze up faster than anything else in the world can. He’s terrified, feels stupid for just how scared he is, and when he grudgingly opens his eyes it’s only to wince them half-closed again.

He shouldn’t have done this.

Bro is going to kill him. He’s going to kick him down the stairs. He’s going to put him out on the street for being weird and _cuddly_ and wrong.

“Dude, get the fuck out of the way.”

Bro doesn’t sound angry, just half-asleep, maybe the slightest bit annoyed. He looks down at Dave like he’s waiting for him to get a fucking move on already, so Dave does. He sits up and gets his feet on the floor, hops off the futon like it’s made of garlic and sunlight and he’s the last traditional, shrieky, non-sparkling vampire in existence.

He realizes belatedly that his shades are on the floor, safe, but definitely not on his face, so when Bro swings his legs off the side of the futon and stares at him, he’s got nowhere to look but into his brother’s eyes.

They have _got_ to stop being shadeless like this.

He shrinks under that stare, speechless, still half-convinced he’s going to die, but after a moment Bro stands up and stretches, cracks his back. He takes a few steps away only to stop and look back at the futon, at Dave standing beside it like a deer in the headlights. He stares at Dave for what feels like a full fifteen minutes, like he’s looking for _something_ , before shaking his head and turning away, walking out of the room and down the hall.

Dave sits on the floor.

He gropes for his shades, puts them back on. In his head there’s a running commentary of everything he could have said to explain himself, every lame joke he could have made, but they just repeat and repeat on a loop and never get said.

Bro didn’t ask for an explanation. He didn’t even call Dave out.

Dave listens for the hiss of the shower, sits alone, confused.

.

.

.

Dave spends the day in a state of dread.

He walks through the apartment and it’s clear that the mood has changed. The tension has lifted and he doesn’t understand why.

Bro goes out, he comes home, he scrolls through site after site online and even as Dave tiptoes around, he’s losing the feeling that he has to be careful. Bro isn’t looking at him like a monster, like a fragile flower, like a little kid. It’s almost like before, like it always was, and he wants to be relieved but. But what the fuck?

Dave hides out in his room for a while, dusts off his shelf of dead things in jars because they’re looking a little dingy. He trolls the internet and avoids his friends, listen to music and zones out and tries, keeps trying, not to think too hard.

He sneaks back out into the living room late in the afternoon, realizing he forgot to eat lunch, oh, and also breakfast. His stomach is issuing official warnings that it’s going to start eating itself in about five seconds if he doesn’t get off his ass and find food.

A preliminary search of the cabinets reveals all the nothing he was expecting, so he moves on.

There’s some leftover takeout in the fridge, front and center, and he doesn’t remember it being there before so it must be new. There’s a note under a plastic container of noodles, clearly left for him even if it doesn’t have his name anywhere on it, and the sight of it makes him pause, panic.

But it’s cool. He’s cool. It’s just a note from his brother and it’s not a big deal.

He takes a busted blade handle out of the microwave, heats up his food, reads the note.

He takes his sweet time eating, rereads the note another three times. It’s only six words,

_roof._

_when you feel like it._

When he feels like it. No sense of urgency even. So he can take his sweet time, it’s okay. It’s not like he’s avoiding this or anything. What’s there to avoid? An awkward conversation? Getting his ass handed to him? At this point it’s nothing new.

Dave tosses the empty takeout container, crumples the note. He’s got a sword stashed in case of strife, his poker face activated.

He heads up when he’s good and ready, careful of traps but there’s no rain of plush, no unexpected explosion.

He keeps his guard up, climbs.

.

.

.

They meet on the roof.

Bro is sitting on the edge, where there should be a railing but he ripped it out of place years ago. He’s watching the clouds or the birds, maybe nothing. Dave isn’t about to ask.

He sits down beside him, far enough away so he’s not in his face, stares out and down while his brother is occupied with the sky. It’s a long, long drop.

He inches back a little, grips the concrete beneath him and waits. Bro wanted him up here for something, he’s just got to take the time to get to it.

It’s another few minutes of breeze and silence before Bro speaks up. The sun is setting and Dave has almost lost himself in the bounce of light from one window pane to the next, the shadows forming sideways, pulled out under the edges of things. It’s the kind of thing he thinks he’d like to photograph, for real, not even at some hideously cropped angle like it’s a joke, but once Bro’s voice cuts through the quiet, all thoughts of running for his camera are gone.

“Sup,” He says, and Dave sits up straighter, looks at him just barely.

He gives his response, the expected, “Sup,” but it’s taken as a question, not a statement. Bro’s actually got something on his mind and it’s laid out so quick, so clean, Dave isn’t ready for it.

“You really like me, don’t you?”

It’s not at all a question Dave was expecting, one that leaves him wanting to bury his face in his hands. He furrows his brow like he doesn’t know what the hell his brother is talking about, like it’s an absurd question and it really kind of is, the answer is right there in front of him, “What the fuck, man?”

Bro shakes his head slightly, still watching the path of one stray pigeon on the next roof over, “I mean you seriously like me. It’s not just some dumb crush. You don’t just wanna screw around.”

Heat rushes into Dave’s face quick enough to make him dizzy, and the altitude’s not helping. He keeps his eyes off the dropping off point of the roof, focuses squarely on Bro and scoffs a laugh, “What do you mean, I just-“

“Dave,” His brother says, almost amused, almost _pitying_ , “Bro, you were curled up like a kitten back there. That’s teenage girl shit. That’s practically Nicholas Sparks levels of teenage girl shit.”

Dave chokes a little, says nothing.

“I’m just confirming here. You honest to god _like_ me. Don’t you?”

Dave can’t believe they’re having this conversation again. It’s a different tone, sure, not so much about whether or not he wants to jump his brother’s bones and more about how soon he wants to get fuckin’ hitched, but either way it’s embarrassing as hell. He thought they’d cleared this up with their last incredibly awkward incest talk, but apparently Bro still has something to wring out of him.

Maybe he misunderstood.

“I- well I tried an epic spit swap maneuver, didn’t I? Figured that was pretty telling.”

Dave’s trying to be funny, dancing around the real point, shrivels when Bro just stares at him. This isn’t about the kiss, it’s about the cuddling. It’s about Dave having feelings when he’s not allowed to have them, not even just sexual feelings just…emotional bullshit in general that’s messing with his head and throwing him off and ruining everything.

He’s ruining _everything_.

“I really thought you were smarter than this,” Bro says, and the words come down on Dave like a weight.

 “What’s that supposed to mean?” He tries to sound angry, ends up with a weak question and briefly reconsiders the drop off the roof. It’s not _that_ far down.

“You know how I am,” Bro says simply, like that answers every question Dave could ever have.

And while it doesn’t come close to answering all of Dave’s questions, it explains a lot. Dave _does_ know how his brother is. He knows that he’s strong, stoic, in control. He knows he’s scary as hell, cold and distant. He knows he doesn’t usually get attached to people, barely shows it when he is. He can piece all that together and recognize that his brother is probably pretty impossible to be with.

Now that he thinks about it, he always kind of thought he was smarter than this too.

Ignoring the facts, ignoring the tight, squeezing pain in his chest, Dave rolls his eyes, says, “So?”

Bro rolls his eyes back at him, quietly exasperated, makes Dave feel stupider than ever.

“What did I always tell you when you were little?”

Bro told him a lot of things when he was little. Not to chew on wires, for one. To keep the stuff about swords and cameras to himself so the neighbors didn’t find out. Something more relevant to the situation comes to mind though, and he knows it’s the answer Bro is looking for.

“…to stay away from creeps.”

“Right. And why?”

Dave narrows his eyes because, seriously? Seriously they have to go through this? He huffs, looks down at the street below and re-reconsiders the drop because the thought of dying on impact scares him. The thought of _not_ dying makes him sick.

“Because they’d probably murder me or something?”

“Or?”

“I don’t know, molest me?”

“Right,” Bro says, all stern and serious and Dave just wants to shove him, make him shut the fuck up, “And what do you think I am?”

Dave shivers, swallows. No, this is different. Bro’s not some stranger, some weirdo, some whackjob, he’s just…

“A creep.”

“Damn right. Now you wanna tell me why you’re swooning so hard?”

Dave’s face goes hotter and he tenses, grits his teeth.

He’s not swooning, he’d never swoon. He’s more like…aching.

“Fuckin’ christ,” He snaps, “I get a little sentimental over people or something, so sue me!”

“You can’t find somebody else to get sentimental over?” Bro asks, not so amused anymore, more annoyed, “Seriously Dave, you had to know this wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

Dave wonders if his brother is being especially cruel on purpose. Why else would he be such a complete dick about this instead of just letting it go?

“What do I know?” He mutters, glares at the nearest clear patch of cement, “Obviously I’m braindead and I can’t read signals for shit so hey, maybe I thought it might work.”

He _hoped_ it might work. There’s kind of a difference.

“I know I was screwing with you for a while there man but…come on.”

“You’re a pretty fucked up guy, I thought I had a chance.”

Bro looks taken aback and Dave feels about as surprised as he looks. Even with the shades in place it’s clear the words hit home. It feels weird, speaking the truth, being clear and concise. He can ramble for a day and a half about complete and total bullshit that doesn’t even matter, spin a metaphor so long and pointless he forgets what the fuck he’s on about halfway through, but just dropping an honest thought into thin air leaves him feeling exposed, on edge.

“I’m not that fucked up, man,” Bro says, and he doesn’t quite sound angry, maybe offended.

He’s quiet then, challenging quiet, and Dave keeps his mouth stubbornly shut because he is not going to break dammit he’s not going to talk himself into a corner and shrink back, he’s got to stick this out-

“Two years,” Bro says finally, and Dave feels victory for the most fleeting second, fading to confusion before it fully blossoms in his chest.

“…what?”

“Two years,” Bro repeats, and leans back, expression set at its blankest state, “You take two years to grow up a little, then maybe you have a chance.”

Two years.

Two years isn’t that long. Two years is a chance. Two years could make Dave lose his mind completely and he is _not_ entertaining the thought of waiting two years to maybe hook up with his brother maybe because he would _maybe_ have a chance.

Bro is fucking with him, still, always.

He’s doing this on purpose he’s _doing this on purpose-_ setting Dave up for defeat, building his hopes up so he can yank the rug out from under him later because it’s what he _always_ does. It’s some stupid game and it doesn’t matter what Dave does, _he can’t win_. He knows the tricks now. He’s been playing long enough. He looks at his brother, knowing his angle and hating him for it, wishing he could just be a normal person with a godddamn _heart_ and knowing he wouldn’t be anywhere near as cool if he was.

Bro shrugs slightly, all rehearsed tenderness, “But I really don’t want you lingering on something like that. Not healthy, honestly.”

No, no it’s not. None of this is. Dave doesn’t want to linger around for two fucking years waiting to see if his brother will give him the time of day either, isn’t going to sit in his room and be ashamed and feel like shit, that’s just not _cool_. He can’t do that.

“So you’re saying I should just get over it.”

It’s not a question. He knows that’s exactly what his brother is saying. It’s probably not what he really means, but it’s what he’s saying.

“Basically,” Another shrug, a tip of the head. The shadows are pulling at Bro too now, the sun so low on the horizon that he’s cast in dull, dryed out indigoes instead of orange. Dusk and dawn are good times for him, bring out his best features, but Dave doesn’t want to think on that too much.

“I don’t want to hurt you or anything you know,” He says, and Dave is pretty sure he’s lying through his teeth, but he sounds so sincere he can almost believe he’s trying to help, trying to save him from some suffering, “But you have to face facts.”

“You’re not gonna feel that way about me,” Dave says, slow, and before he can stop himself, “…if you feel anything, I mean.”

Bro smirks. Right, because it’s a joke. Kind of.

“Sorry bro. Not gonna happen.”

Dave nods. He understands. Kind of.

Mostly he doesn’t understand at all and this sucks, it _sucks_.

“So,” Bro says, and it’s a final so, settling things once and for all, “For real now. No more of that shit. Right?”

Dave hesitates. This is probably the only chance he’s going to get to speak up if he wants to. He feels like a slow motion movie car accident, moving towards an inevitable, awful _crunch_ and he wants to look away, can’t, has to roll with it and work around the clenching dread in his chest.

“It’s not just gonna go away-“ He starts to say, quick, but his brother gives him a _look_ and he shuts up fast.

“Dave.”               

His stomach twists, panic building up inside and making him breath quicker, making him almost freak.

“Bro I-“

He waits to be interrupted again, swallows a mouthful of words when he isn’t.

Fuck, what was he going to say? There was a wall of text converting to speech in his head that bubbled up from somewhere inside, a rambling mess that could dwarf every one sided conversation he’s ever had over pesterchum, probably more words than he’s ever said to his brother in his _life._ But when he tries to think back on them the whole thing runs together into one big pile of meaningless trash that really just adds up to him saying _please don’t do this please just feel the same_ and that’s good for about fuck nothing.

Bro stares at him expectantly, looking tired, like he wants to be done with this already but Dave just won’t drop it, and his brother’s eyes on him make Dave flustered now more than ever. He picks his brain for one bit of sense in the torrent of stupid, uncontrollable emotion and comes up with one thing that sticks.

“Can I just kiss you again?”

He asks the question aloud before it’s even fully formed in his head. He spits the words out like poison, stares up through shades into more shades and focuses so hard he can’t even see the reflection. Everything else is blurred at the edges, blurred like he’s crying but he’s _not,_ he’s just. Just freaking out, losing control, and that’s even scarier than simple crying.

“Just once,” He says, trying to sound reasonable and even toned as his mind races, turns frantic, “Before we give this shit up for good?”

Bro looks at him.

Just looks.

He seems to debate silently, shifting his shoulders, leaning back away from Dave and sizing him up, judging the pros and cons and so clearly going to say no until he speaks in a voice somehow smaller than Dave is used to hearing,

“Sure.”

Dave is on him in seconds.

He launches himself into his brother’s lap, falls all over his chest in a seriously uncool display of desperation. His lips press to Bro’s too hard, too fast, accompanied by this awful, breathy noise that is nothing like arousal, everything like a pained whimper. Bro’s hands come up to settle on his sides, hesitant, then sure, gripping tight and bunching his shirt at the bottom as Dave’s hands press awkwardly against his thighs.

Bro kisses back, which is the thing that claws at the inside of Dave’s chest the most. He responds grudgingly, almost weakly, and as Dave’s lips part and his brother’s tongue brushes his, that starts to change. He grips Dave’s hips like a vice, pulls him closer still, lets him shake in pent up frustration and sexual tension and outrage, lets him do what he wants.

Dave lets out a shuddery gasp against his brother’s lips, closes his mouth securely over Bro’s to stifle the noise, goes breathless as he kisses him badly, messily.

He digs his nails into Bro’s thighs and when he tries to move away his brother tugs him close again, swallows his moan, his whine, sucks on his lower lip and makes his insides heave.

Dave pulls away fast, gasping for air, jerking back like a hook ripped from the mouth of a fish.

It should really be the other way around. He feels like he’s dying but Bro looks as sharp as ever, the rat fuck.

Kneeling on the rooftop he stares at his brother, swallows hard, catches his breath. He watches Bro wet his lips, drop his hands into his lap.

Bro looks right back and raises his eyebrows in question, “Okay?”

No, not okay. Not okay at all. Dave never wants to do that again, never wants to _feel_ that again.

If that was Bro’s plan, turn him off for all eternity by ripping his fucking heart out with a kiss, then bravo. He’s fucking done it. That kiss was awful, unsatisfying and Dave just wants to spit it all out, back time up and stop it from happening even though he knows damn well if he had the choice, he’d do it all again.

He feels sick, sick of feeling sick, sick of this and just done. He’s done.

“Alright,” He says, hoarse, “I won’t bother you anymore.”

“You sure?”

Bro seems slightly concerned, like suddenly he’s worried for Dave’s fragile psyche, and it’s so pointless Dave almost wants to laugh.

If he started laughing now he really might cry, and if he really did cry he really would have to step off the edge of the roof. Then he really would splatter on the pavement and he can’t handle that, who would even tell his friends if he died, how could he do that to Harley, she’d probably sob over him for like a month and a half straight-

So he doesn’t laugh. He bites his tongue and stares at the concrete between them, nods an affirmative.

He wants to climb into his brother’s lap and stay there forever. He wants to huddle up close to him and hide. He wants to lick a path up his fingers and remind him what started this.

He wants to kiss him just one last time, again, to see if it’ll make him feel as awful as he thinks it will.

So yeah, he’s sure.

Bro sighs, drawn out, like they just finished training, and eases himself up off the ground, brushes himself off, “Right. I’m heading in then.”

He waits, expects Dave to follow. He doesn’t have it in him to argue, so he stands up too, careful as he steps away from the edge of the roof.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and realizes his mouth tastes different, realizes it’s probably his brother he’s tasting.

The thought makes him shudder, consider.

He could taste that again in two years.

He could taste that again now if he just pushed for it. He’s half-convinced that Bro really _is_ fucked up enough, that he could make it happen if he persevered.

He resigns himself to the fact that his mouth isn’t going to taste this way again. He doesn’t want it to. This has to stop.

He follows Bro down the rickety steps from the roof to their apartment, watches his step, watches his head, and doesn’t want his brother at all.

They stop in the hallway, fist bump before going to their separate corners. All Dave feels is sick and sad, torn up in the worst way. If Bro is feeling anything he doesn’t show it.

Dave goes to his room and shuts the door, leans against it.

He tries to feel like his brother, feel nothing at all, fails.

He figures it’s his own damn fault.

.

.

.

Dave lies face down on his floor for an hour.

 It seems like the thing to do.

Eventually he gets up. It doesn’t stop him from feeling miserable, but at least it’s a change.

He turns on his computer, rereads some Midnight Crew pages until he’s more focused on the details of the story than anything else.

He starts up Pesterchum, messages his friends.

He calls Jade the super shojo magic ice princess of his heart, reads her giggles. He tells John he’s the overbite sporting light of his ironic life and he forgives him for being a complete loser, almost smiles at his snarky, dismissive response.

He tells Rose he maybe has something he wants to talk about.

She says she’d be happy to listen.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. The sixth and final chapter. It’s been a fun, angsty ride, but it’s done and I’m pretty happy with how it’s turned out. Folks on Tumblr and AO3 have been super great with all the comments, kudos, likes, and reblogs. So thanks guys, you are swell! A lot of you have left really fantastic comments on this and other works of mine and I hope you don't feel cheated when I don't respond to them. I just get a little flustered trying to figure out how best to go about thanking everybody!  
> Just know that I really appreciate all the feedback and I am kind of a doofus. Sorry.  
> To repeat, you guys are swell. <3


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